


Good Night

by wrathwritesthings (leviathan_wrath)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Crown Princess Reader, F/M, Innuendo, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 04:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11982069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviathan_wrath/pseuds/wrathwritesthings
Summary: You're the Crown Princess of Lucis and you're in love with your father's Shield. What can go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _Can I ask for a one shot about a female reader being the daughter of either Ignis or Noctis, 20+ years old and being in love with Gladio, and she tries to seduce him? I'm curious about a relationship of a lot of years of difference... Bonus if Gladio realizes the reader is not just a brat but a woman and sees her like that nsfw or not, as you prefer_
> 
> This was extended beyond a one-shot as per the anon's request. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Age Gap, Nameless Friend, Basically Noct  & Prom as Best Drunk Friends, Drunk Vomiting, Pompous Character With a Heart of Gold Cliché, Open-Ended

**Part 1**

As the daughter of the King of Lucis, you know that you have a lot of power over others. To say that this makes dating difficult would be a gross understatement. Most people only see your title or, even worse, your _father_. The only one who seems to even remotely see you as your own person is Gladiolus Amicitia, your father’s Shield. But even then, he mostly sees you as a brat.

The curse of being raised by King Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV?

_E_ _ntitlement_.

And you have it in spades, hence your almost unseemly ego.

Perhaps it’s your ego that has you hastening to every training session, rather than your urge to actually _fulfill your duties_. Perhaps it’s your ego that has you looking at Gladiolus from beneath your lashes as you say things that would make the faint of heart turn a million shades of red but, unfortunately for you, only makes the king’s Shield snort before flipping you over his shoulder and right onto your back where you wheeze and pray to the Six that you’ll be able to breathe again.

Lather, rinse, repeat. _Ad nauseam_.

Oh, it’s _definitely_ your ego that makes it impossible for you to back down.

You aren’t sure what it is that draws you to the older man. When you’d confided in your best friend, she said it might just be proximity. “A _fleeting_ infatuation,” she’d said as she scrolled through her phone to show you guys in your age range in the area. You’d batted her phone away with a scoff of, “ _Hell_ , no,” when you recognized one of the guys as Prompto Argentum’s kid.

You didn’t have the heart to tell her that you’ve been enamored with Gladiolus Amicitia since you were old enough to appreciate his strange, sort of rugged beauty. He’s imposing but gentle. There’s a warmness to him even when his scarred face is impassive. And each time he rebuffs your advances with “brat” and “kid” falling from his lips, it drives you absolutely insane.

In truth, you’ve got it bad for him.

No one else will do.

Which makes you skipping your sparring session with him all the more painful. But your best friend invited you to a party rather last second and you can never say no when she makes her eyes all big and pouts her lower lip out. She put the final nail in the coffin by saying, “(y/n), this latest novel is literally killing me! I _need_ this!”

Knowing how overworked she is, you couldn’t say no. And she knows that the pout always wins you over. It’s obviously why she does it so damn often. You wonder if you can outlaw it when you begin your reign.

“Oh, shoot! (y/n) it’s _so_ late!” Your friend gasps, speech slurred since she decided to get trashed and leave you being the responsible one- and you _usually_ are, anyway, since you can never let your guard down.

She hangs heavily onto your shoulders as you walk her home. The smell of fruity alcohol ghosts warmly across your cheek and jaw every now and then as she drunkenly nuzzles into your neck. You purse your lips and shove her face away each time.

In truth, what was supposed to be a fun night has turned out to be more of a bother than anything.

Since you no longer have a full-time driver since you moved into your own apartment (a move that your father said he fully backed only for you to discover a Crownsguard member pretending to be a mailman literally a day after you moved in) and don’t have a license yourself, you don’t have a ride back to your midtown apartment. In fact, your friend was _supposed_ to be the driver.

Six, you can only imagine how your father is going to react when he hears you’ve been out all night. Because, despite what he says, you know he has you watched. And it’s not like you really _blame_ him. You’re the Crown Princess, after all.

“Here we are,” you sigh, unceremoniously dumping your friend onto her doorstep of her downtown townhouse. You watch as she fumbles with her keys a moment before rolling your eyes and inserting the key yourself. Once you open the door, your friend drags you inside along with her.

“He-Hey,” your friend hiccups, eyes bleary as she fumbles to take off her shoes, “you should _totally_ sleep over, (y/n). Like when we were little kids!”

“What? No way.” You sniff, looking around her small house that’s littered with takeaway containers and unfinished manuscripts, “Full offense, but this place is a dump. And why does it smell like hot dog water?”

She laughs way too loud, “I _know_! Help me clean? You’re always so _clean_.”

Rubbing your hand over your face, you groan and then check your phone. It’s 2:15 a.m. and you have no missed calls or texts. That’s… a little suspicious but you’re a bit preoccupied with the hour to give it a second thought. Though Insomnia is one of the safest cities in Lucis and you know how to protect yourself, you’d rather not be on the streets alone. _Especially_ not downtown.

Plus… your friend is almost alarmingly drunk. She can barely even keep herself upright and her speech is almost unintelligible. In the back of your mind you’re glad you decided to skip your sparring session to basically be her chaperone. Because now? You’re going to have to keep an eye on her to make sure she didn’t just drink herself to death.

So much for a fun night.

“I’m gonna get you some water,” you say to your friend as you force her to sit upright on the couch.

“Mmm. You’ve always been such a sweetheart, (y/n). I dunno why everyone says you’re selfish.”

Hands pause, the glass filled halfway with water from the tap since your friend never has bottles or anything filtered on hand. She’s still rambling over there on the couch in that mess of a living room, professing her love and talking about how she’s _so_ lucky to have you.

In truth, she’s the only friend you have. That ego of yours? It’s more like a hard edge that a lot of people can never get over. They cut themselves too deeply on it and you’re too proud to apologize. Many have tried and failed to befriend you and get you to open up. All but this messy, whirlwind of a woman who you kneel down in front of and offer a glass of water to.

She looks down at you with a smile, drunk tears in her eyes, nose a little red and lips trembling.

You sigh, “You’ve always been a drunk crier. I told you you’re ugly when you cry, so cut it out.”

She sniffles, “(y/n)…”

“What?” You snort but the laughter quickly turns into a horrified screech when you get splattered with vomit. It goes right down the front of your shirt. “The bathroom! Go! _Go_!”

The urge to throw up yourself is almost insurmountable, but somehow you manage. You’re still wiping her puke off of you with a damp towel when someone starts banging on the front door. In no shape to answer the door, you’re going to just let them keep at it until they wise up and leave when the banging gets louder.

“ _(y/n)_ … make them stop,” your friend moans from the bathroom as she continues puking.

“Get ready,” you order. “After I scare off this asshole, we’re going to the hospital. You hear me?”

“ _Ugh_ …”

It takes a lot to shock you. You sort of pride yourself on that. You’re the cool, composed Crown Princess- the _Ice Princess_ , as some of your former classmates called you- and you’re always remarkably level-headed. But not this time. Because the second you open the front door to see a pissed-off Gladiolus Amicitia, you gasp in horror.

He can’t see you covered in _vomit_!

Thankfully, he seems way too pissed to notice the giant yellow stain down the front of your unfortunately white blouse. A blouse that you’re going to either need to bleach or just toss out altogether. When the acrid odor of bile wafts up to assail your nose, you make a mental note that you’re _definitely_ throwing the damn blouse away.

“Have you lost your damn mind?” Is all the Shield says, amber eyes practically glowing in the night, large frame filling up the doorway.

Brow furrowed, you quip, “Is that a rhetorical question, _or_ …?”

“Do you know how worried your old man is? It’s like you don’t care about anyone but yourself, (y/n),” Gladio fumes.

You roll your eyes. The flirtatious persona is gone now that you’re sleep-deprived and covered in regurgitated liquor.

“Yes, I’m the most selfish person on the planet. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, my father’s concern over the whereabouts of his _adult_ child is going to have to take a backseat to my friend’s possible alcohol poisoning. So, if you’ll _excuse_ me, Gladio.” You turn your head slightly and call out, “Come _on_! We’re going to the hospital!”

“(y/n), no!” Your friend wails from the bowels of the bathroom.

Gladio’s dark eyebrows knit together as he finally takes you in. The stain on your shirt and the bags under your eyes are startling. Usually you’re so put together with this carefully contrived veneer of perfection, even during your sparring sessions.

“What exactly have you been up to?”

Eyes cut to him and you reply sharply, “Keeping a friend from going home alone drunk,” you pluck at your shirt, “and this is what I got for my trouble. But whatever. What’s a pretty shirt compared to my only friend… even if she pukes and doesn’t flatter my figure?”

Something in the way he looks at you changes. It’s almost imperceptible, like he’s seeing you in a new light. He recomposes himself. Amber eyes look around and he sniffs. “Why does it smell like hot dog water in here?” When you don’t answer, he sighs, “Listen, (y/n), I’m sorry for snapin’ at you.”

“Mmhm,” you fix him with a strained smile, eyes narrowed, “I’m sure you are. Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

“I’ll drive you and your friend to the hospital,” Gladio offers quickly.

You squint at him. “Yeah. No. I’ve had it up to here,” you gesture over your head, “with this paternalistic charade of yours. I can ‘adult’ on my own just fine.” You snap your head to the side and yell, “ _Now_!”

As slow as molasses, your friend comes trudging over to you two, looking like death. She carries a small trash bin under her arm and has vomit at the corners of her mouth and on her chin. With a displeased little noise in the back of your throat, you take the damp rag that you’ve been clutching with a death grip ever since you opened the door and carefully wipe her face off.

Gladiolus watches you intently all the while.

“There,” you sigh, “all better. Now, let’s go.”

“I just need to get it all out, (y/n),” your friend insists, voice raw from all her retching. “It’ll pass, I swear.”

“And will that be what I have put on your headstone? ‘It’ll pass, I swear’?” Behind you, Gladio snorts. You shoot him a disapproving look and your friend immediately perks up at the sight of him. You swat at her head and growl, “Keep it in your pants! You’re at death’s door with half your outfit consisting of vomit and you want to pick up on someone? Are you kidding me?”

“Wait!” She gasps, suddenly lucid, “Isn’t he… _you know_?”

You almost wish she would go back to puking when you feel Gladio’s intense stare on you.

“My trainer? Yes. Let’s go.”

“Hold up,” Gladio raises his great big paw of a hand, “how are you two getting to the hospital?”

“Will you drive us? I left my car at the warehouse where the- _Oof_!”

“We can walk,” you say placidly, like you didn’t just elbow your friend in the ribs. “It’s not that far and it’ll do her some good.” You turn to your best friend and widen your eyes at her, “Won’t it?”

She shrinks back from you, looking frightened as she squeaks, “Er… yeah.”

With that all settled, you usher Gladio out of the doorway and lock the door to your friend’s house. The hospital isn’t even that far away, considering your friend lives close to the inner city’s medical center (which is why her tiny house is so _ludicrously expensive_ compared to your much nicer midtown apartment).

As you and your friend head off down the sidewalk, Gladio calls after you, “Hey, (y/n), I’ll see you at five sharp.”

You balk and quickly spin around to confront him, “That’s in less than three hours!”

He shrugs his broad shoulders as he casually walks over to his parked car before unlocking the doors. “You missed your evening session yesterday, so you have two today. Or, if you want, it can just be breakfast.”

Puzzled, you consent, “Um… Okay? Fine.”

After he drives off, amber eyes fixed on you in the rearview mirror, your friend tugs urgently on your arm. Thinking she’s about to start blowing chunks again, you try to distance yourself only for her to pull you in closer and squeal, “You just got asked out!”

With a scoff you insist, “No I didn’t! I already told you that he still thinks I’m nothing but a bratty kid.”

“Maybe so, but I think I might be the perfect wing-woman! ‘Cause _you_ just got asked out!”

As your friend practically dances down the sidewalk with her puke-bin, you wonder if there’s an ounce of truth in her words. Though you’re hopeful, you aren’t so sure that Gladiolus Amicitia is starting to see you as a woman just after witnessing you in a vomit-stained blouse.

“Yeah,” you call after your friend as you follow on her heels, “that’ll be the day.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, 20-something daughter of King Noctis goin’ out to have breakfast with the king’s Shield. As previously stated, if you hate big age gaps, give this one a hard pass. Whole lot of nothin’ goin’ on in this chapter. Mostly build-up.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Age Gap, Mild Angst, Noct the Father, General Snobbery, AU, Foot-in-Mouth

**Part 2**

Is this a date?

There are many, many factors that lead you to think otherwise and you want to angrily (but also _kind of_ triumphantly) text your friend: I TOLD YOU SO. With maybe some angry face emojis or something a little more dramatic, like a knife or… maybe the gun and the coffin? 

Death threat by emoji would serve her right for giving you that little bit of foolish hope.

Because this _can’t_ be a date. And if it is? Well, you knew Gladiolus Amicitia couldn’t be the perfect man all around. ‘Cause he certainly lacks taste.

First, the _location_. 

For the few dates you’ve been on, the guys had taken you to _all_ sorts of swanky locales. Five-star restaurants, resorts, and even a trip all the way to Galdin Quay. That last one had been a gutsy move and you weren’t surprised in the slightest when you found Crownsguard members hiding their faces with menus in the restaurant like they didn’t all look like they just stepped out of _The Matrix_.

But _this_ place?

It’s 5:20 a.m. and you find yourself sitting across from Gladiolus Amicitia in quite possibly the most run down, hole-in-the-wall, 24-hour diner in the city. The place stinks of cooking oil that’s been reused one too many times and you have to bathe your hands in sanitizer after you put them on the red pleather seat of your booth only to have them come away all sticky.

Amber eyes squint as Gladio grins at you, lines forming at the corners of his eyes, amused by the fountain of hand sanitizer that you spurt on your hands- feeling a bit childish because he finds himself chuckling at the farting noises the plastic bottle makes. 

For a moment he just watches as you juggle the semi-gelatinous cleaner, spilling some on the table and down your arms. He extends his hands towards you and demands, “Gimme some. You’re practically drowning in it over there.”

“I wouldn’t be if someone took a damp rag to these seats at least once every other century,” you gripe before doing as told, cupping your hands and trying but failing to adequately pour the excess into the Shield’s awaiting hands.

Gladio rolls his eyes and sighs, “Not like that. Here.”

Large, warm hands enclose yours. Callused palms move along yours, fingers curling around the backs of your hands, pulling the hand sanitizer off of your skin. His thumb rakes over your wrist for a split second, where your racing pulse lies, before the Shield pulls away and rubs his hands together, working the cleaner into his skin until it’s all gone.

Like nothing happened, he picks up his laminated menu and glances over it.

Before he can realize that you’re rattled, you also pick up your menu and immediately cringe at how oily it is- you swear if you grip the thing any harder it’ll go shooting out of your hands like a deadly projectile weapon. You hear Gladio snort.

“Toughen up, princess.”

You scoff, “How charming. At this rate, we’ll _definitely_ have a second date.”

The Shield doesn’t respond and you purse your lips, glad to have won _that_ short battle by default. Eyes flicker over the menu, not really impressed with the fare and a little disgruntled by the prices. Just who the hell do these people think they are? And what sort of con are they playing?

If one thing can be said about how your father raised you, though you were _spoiled rotten_ you learned the value of money. The king made you get a part-time job, after all… _two_ , actually. Dealing with screaming kids at an arcade _and_ at an ice cream shop sure did smack you out of whatever “teen rebellious phase” you were just entering at sixteen.

The Frugal Crown Princess.

Now, _there’s_ a title.

But back to how this is totally, most definitely _not a date_.

Second point: The _atmosphere_. 

This isn’t romantic. Not even if you were drunk out of your mind would you think this was romantic. 

If you look up at the lighting fixtures and squint, you can see the corpses of a dozen bugs, silhouetted against the opaque plastic like it’s the site of an insect massacre. Plus, Gladio is in a track suit and you’re in shorts and the t-shirt your father got you from the last time you two went to the Moogle Chocobo carnival together.

And speaking of your clothes, you’re going to have to throw them in the wash when you get home because you’re _definitely_ going to stink of cigarette smoke, grease, and dollar store floral air freshener from this place’s godsawful toilets (a horror show in itself) when you leave. Just being in here for a few minutes and your hair already reeks of smoke and burned bacon.

“You ready to order, (y/n)?”

“Yes,” you respond sullenly, settling on coffee and pancakes.

“Ramen burger and fries for me and...” Gladio looks from the waiter to you but you’re too busy squinting at the Shield to place your order.

“Miss?”

“Oh, pancakes and coffee, please.” 

You throw the waiter a cool smile and the young man blushes vividly before hastily scribbling down the order and dropping his pen in the process. Being the gracious young woman that you are, you reach down and pick it up for him. When he takes it from your hand, he looks like he’s about to die before murmuring his thanks and hurrying over to the kitchen.

This is all done under the critical amber gaze of Gladiolus Amicitia.

“Sure do have a way with men,” the older man grunts but you aren’t playing that game right now- that game where he talks about the men _your age_ as a way of deflecting your attention. You have one hard-hitting question for your father’s Shield.

“Did you seriously have us come all the way out to this place for a _ramen burger_?”

His cheeks color a bit and he huffs defensively, “This place has the best one in the city.”

“It’s probably the only good thing they have,” you retort with a derisive snort before leaning back into your seat. “Besides, I’m sure Uncle Iggy wouldn’t mind using some uncooked ramen as buns for a burger every once in a while. All you have to do is ask.”

“Yeah, right. Ever since you were born, Ignis only caters to whatever _you_ wanna eat,” Gladio replies a bit bitterly, though he looks amused. “Even _after_ you moved out.”

That earns a laugh from you.

You two chat a bit about how Gladio stumbled across this place and your friend. You aren’t surprised that Gladio would bring her up- he _did_ just meet her today, after all. However, you get the distinct feeling that he’s probing for something. You suppose it’s that he figured, like most people, that you didn’t have any friends. That cold exterior of yours serves as a repellent for vultures.

So, for the Shield to suddenly learn that you have a _best friend_? One you go out to parties with despite being asocial? One you are _incredibly_ protective of despite acting self-centered to the rest of the world? One who seems to love you dearly despite that hard front of yours? 

His perception of you has been a bit skewed, to say the least. Then again, it’s not as though he’s spent much time with you outside of training.

Even though your father is Gladio’s friend, he didn’t get to spend much time with you when you were growing up. Gladio had his own family to attend to; Iris and her children. Plus, his duties as the king’s Shield were and still are time consuming. 

When you started training, _that’s_ when he started getting one-on-one time with you. And even then, he couldn’t get much of a read on your personality other than that you hate sweating and you’re easily irritated, much like your father. Oh, and that you’re a _horrible flirt_. He doesn’t know where you got the charm. Definitely not from Noctis.

Gladio watches as your eyes light up when you talk about your friend, a devious smirk on your lips as you tell a story about a time where you two went on a road trip to “get her creative juices flowing” for one of her novels only for her writer’s block to get _even worse_ because she got an idea for another story and she started crying about it.

“So, your friend’s a writer?”

“Mmhm. Published,” you answer proudly just as the waiter comes over with your order. You nod your thanks and begin buttering your pancakes. “I could get you a signed copy of a book of your choosing, if you want. But you’ll probably have to buy her lunch first… _and_ drinks.”

Gladio shrugs his big shoulders and answers half-thinking, “Nah. I’m not really interested in younger women.”

He freezes the second he says it.

But you keep on buttering your pancakes like nothing ( _over-buttering_ them, actually), already having mastered the art of looking unfazed and unhurt no matter the circumstances. However, you’ve lost your appetite. You aren’t quite sure how you’re going to force yourself to eat three pancakes and pretend everything is just peachy.

Before Gladio can attempt to apologize (though, he has _no_ idea how to even broach that subject without seeming like he’s leading you on, without revealing his burgeoning and highly inappropriate interest in his _friend’s kid_ ), to try and smooth things over from that careless slip, you’re granted a small mercy. 

Your father calls and you answer your phone at the speed of light.

“Hey, honey.” His voice is a bit gravelly, bringing a smile to your face as you can imagine his tired expression- blue eyes most likely closed, head nodding forward.

“Dad? Is everything okay?” You ask knowingly, your smile evident in your voice. “What in the _world_ are you doing up at this hour?”

Just the mentioning of Noctis, his voice barely audible from your phone, has the Shield’s stomach twisting in uncomfortable knots. Noct’s call is as much a mercy for you as it is Gladiolus.

Your father scoffs, “I _alwa_ _y_ _s_ get up at a decent hour...”

“Yeah,” you drawl, pouring syrup over your pancakes with your phone sandwiched between your right ear and your shoulder, glad to not have to look at or talk to Gladio, “but only because Uncle Iggy practically drags you out of bed. I take it you have some important business today, otherwise this call would be happening at around noon.”

“You disrespectful brat. Is _this_ how you speak to your king?” He pauses, you can hear the tired grin in his voice, “Anyway, I was calling to see if we’re still on for lunch today. Specs only cooks the good stuff when you come around.”

“Mmhm! We’re still on.”

“Good. I’ll see you then, sweetheart. Love you.”

“Okay, love you too, dad. Bye!”

The call ends and you promptly shove a triangle of pancake in your mouth so you _don’t_ have to talk. 

The rest of the “date” continues in this way: You determinedly and elegantly shoving syrup and butter drenched pancake in your mouth and Gladio nervously eating his crunchy ramen burger and hoping that you don’t realize he’s sweating. But after a few minutes of this nightmare, you slam your fork down on the table and glower at the man who sits across from you.

“Could you _be_ any louder?”

“What?” He asks, mouth full of uncooked ramen, bits falling onto the table.

“Did you have to order the messiest, most obnoxious thing on the menu?” You snap, “Then again, I suppose that suits _you_ quite well. Hm?”

Okay… So, although you’ve mastered the art of hiding your hurt, you haven’t exactly mastered the art of _getting over_ your hurt. The Shield furrows his brow and wipes away the little bits and pieces of uncooked noodle from the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin.

“Sorry.”

His eyes, morose and serious under those dark eyebrows, tell you that he’s apologizing for more than just his stupid hipster burger.

“Whatever. It’s not even that big of a deal.”

The drive back to your apartment is dead silent. You look out the window the whole time, wishing you’d never agreed to have breakfast with the unattainable man you’ve been pining after for years. Honestly, you wonder what you’d been thinking. _How else_ could this have turned out?

And Gladio wishes he hadn’t entertained that errant thought of his- the one that struck him like a bolt of lightning, when he realized how fascinating you are, when he forgot just _who_ your father is. He feels like a fool for asking you to breakfast, for thinking of crossing that line. Gladio tells himself that he’ll put the whole thing out of his mind. And yet... 

_And yet_...

You’re about to slam the car door shut when Gladio suddenly says, “Let’s do this again.”

“Again?” You exhale loudly through your nose, quirking an eyebrow at him as you lean down to stare at him through the passenger window. “Sure you can spare some time for a younger woman?”

“No,” he answers carefully, guarded, “but I can spare some time for you.”

Third and _finally_ , this can’t have been a “date” with Gladiolus Amicitia, your father’s Shield, because you two go to the same diner and order the same thing for the next few weeks. You two talk, laugh, and even confide in each other. Nothing overtly romantic even happens! 

That’s _not_ a date...

At least, you don’t think it is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, it’s time for things to start slowly unravelling. Next part, you have an interesting talk with your dad.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Age Gap, Noct the Father, General Snobbery both Past and Present, Intense Tense Flippage, Mild Suggestive Themes, Just One Bad Joke Actually, Highspecs, Yeah I Squeezed that in Here, Time for Angsting, AU

**Part 3**

It’s been a couple of months since you and Gladiolus began going to the diner together for breakfast once a week. While you’ve tried everything on the menu at least once, Gladio stays true to his hipster burger. Although it’s a tradition that you’ve quickly grown to love, you’re still hesitant to call this “dating.”

 _Courtship_ , however?

It was your best friend who suggested that these weekly breakfast _outings_ (she’d cringed when you glared the second she said “breakfast dates”) might be Gladious’ way of seeing if he’s as ready as you are for romance. Because clearly _you’re_ ready. You swear you’ve been ready since you were eighteen.

“I’d really enjoy it if you came inside,” you slyly insist one morning to the embarrassment of Gladio, always weaponizing double entendre against him. Elegantly, you slide out of his car and gently close the door by leaning on it. One arm hanging through the window, you duck down to hold his gaze.

He’s just dropping you off at your place, car idling in your apartment complex’s parking lot, and goes red in the face. _That_? That’s one hell of a sign to you. It’s a testament to how far you two have come. Before you started having breakfast, the Shield would remain unaffected in the face of your incessant flirtation.

Now?

“Nah, (y/n),” the older man is playing off his discomposure but walks himself right into a trap, “maybe next time.”

A wicked grin flits across your face and you murmur, “I’ll hold you to that, then. Thanks for breakfast.”

However, all good things must come to an end; rather, one specific aspect of this good thing you’ve had going with Gladiolus. It’s a double-edged sort of thing that leaves the Shield feeling relieved and guilty in equal measure. It’s the one aspect that you’ve coveted because it has given him time to think. 

The most important thing: _Secrecy_.

It’s Tuesday evening when your phone rings. 

You’re lounging in your little apartment and know who’s calling without needing to look at your phone’s screen since your life is _full_ of people who love to keep a predictable schedule. With a lazy tap of your finger, the call is answered and you have the dignified voice of your Uncle Iggy greeting you on speaker.

“Good evening, (y/n). Have you been well?”

“I’ve been fine, Uncle Iggy,” you reply lightly, flipping a page of the book that rests on your lap. Blindly, you reach for the glass of wine that sits on the end table next to your chaise. The deep ruby liquid is swirled a couple of times before you take a sip. “How have you been?”

“Well enough. Just languishing from your inattention. You haven’t visited in a couple of weeks,” he scolds gently. “Ah. But that’s enough of my lecturing. I’m sure it bores you at your age, doesn’t it? I’m just about to sit and have dinner. What’s on the menu today, (y/n)?”

At this point, you’re grinning at your uncle’s polite needling. It’s always been his way of telling you that your father has said that he misses you without _actually_ telling you that your father is moping around the Citadel. Making a mental note to visit, you thoughtfully reply, “I have some leftovers from last Tuesday that-”

“I’m coming over.”

“-haven’t gone ba-” You blink in surprise and pause to play catch-up. “Wait. No! Uncle Iggy I’m _fine_ , I promise.”

“That simply won’t do, (y/n).” His voice gets more distant, “Dear? Yes, we’re going over to (y/n)’s. She’s eating leftovers that are a _week_ old. I know, it’s-”

Pinching the bridge of your nose now, you groan, “Uncle Iggy… are you talking bad about me to Aunt Ara? And when did she get back into the city, anyway?”

There’s a rustle and you hear a muffled, “Gimme the phone, Four-Eyes, I heard my name,” before your aunt’s voice comes crystal clear over the speaker. “We’re already on our way, princess. Be there in five.”

“Hold on. Five mi-?” The line goes dead. “Dammit.”

There’s no rush to tidy up because you’re the exact opposite of your father in many aspects. _Cleanliness_ happens to be one of them. The apartment is without dust, litter, or funny odors. Ignis always muses about this when he visits. He could never say Noctis’ place was _ever_ the same growing up.

It’s because you take after Iggy, too. 

The fact that you grew up without a mother never completely bothered you because you had your Uncle Iggy and Uncle Prom, so you essentially grew up with three parents. Ignis Scientia raised you to be polite and tidy while Prompto Argentum (the self-proclaimed “fun uncle”) indulged your desire for mischief.

Since Prompto had a kid, you often found yourself in his company. Hence your reluctance to date Prompto’s son despite how it would put your fathers at ease. You view the younger Argentum as more of a “kid” even though he’s two years younger than you. Still, he was your first kiss. You swore him to secrecy.

“Don’t you breathe a word of this to anyone,” you’d grumbled, “ _especially_ not our parents.”

He’d blushed so hard on that cold winter day that his glasses had steamed up as you two were walking to school together. “I-I wasn’t gonna…”

That tangent aside, though you _don’t_ have to worry about the usual rush to tidy up that most people experience when someone invites themselves over, you _do_ have to change into something more presentable. Appearances and all that. Plus, you know your Aunt Ara will give you hell for your vibrant Chocobo t-shirt.

You’ve just finished buttoning up your blouse when there’s a knock at your door. Steps are silent as you make your way from your bedroom and through the small living room. Smoothing out your skirt, you unlock the door and open it to reveal your smirking aunt and pleasantly smiling uncle. 

“Hi, Uncle Iggy,” you greet him with a kiss on his cheek before moving aside and allowing him to enter. He knows the entryway by heart at this point, so neither you nor Aunt Ara have to watch out.

“Hello, (y/n),” he kisses your cheek in return. “We’re having salad and risotto for dinner tonight.”

“Sounds good.” Eyes alight on your aunt in the doorway and you grin, “Hey there, Aunt Ara. Glad to see that you’re back in town.”

“‘Hey’ yourself, punk. Took you long enough to greet me.”

Aranea is grinning so you know she’s not actually mad at you. You haven’t seen her in months so you want to hug her. However, in her arms she’s holding four containers: two contain the risotto and two contain the salad. As usual, Uncle Iggy brought extra over so that you’ll have food for tomorrow.

Gesturing for her to enter, you close the door behind your aunt once she’s inside. “Let’s go to the kitchen. Need any help prepping?”

Aranea shakes her head, “No. You and Ignis sit and chat. He wouldn’t stop complaining about how long it’s been since you visited on the drive here.”

“Aranea,” Ignis scolds but she snorts off the phlegmatic reprimand and saunters into the kitchen, leaving you with your uncle in the living room.

You take your uncle by the hand and bring him over to sit with you on the couch. As usual, the entire conversation centers around you since you let Iggy direct it. All he wants to talk about is how you’re doing, if you’re renewing your lease, how things are going with your training, and so forth.

All in all, it’s a pleasant visit up until you start helping Aunt Ara clear the table. There’s a strange sort of tension in her body as she stacks plates in her arms. Dishes are washed in relative silence save for Uncle Iggy keeping up the polite chatter and asking if he can turn on your television to listen to the news.

“Sure, go right ahead.”

It’s when the anchorman is talking that Aranea places her hand on your shoulder, nods toward the glass door that leads to your balcony, and asks, “Can I talk to you for a minute, (y/n)?”

With raised eyebrows, you shrug. “Okay.”

The night is warm and the sky has an orange haze from the streetlights and general pollution from the city. A balmy breeze reaches your third-floor apartment unit and you sit on one of the little plastic chairs. You gesture for Aranea to sit across from you. She refuses with a curt shake of her head.

Ara takes a breath, glances out at the city’s skyline, before looking back at you. “Let me preface this by saying I know you’re a grown woman and even when you were eating paste as a kid, you could never be described as stupid. With that in mind, I want you to think about what you’re doing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your fridge is full of leftover containers,” she points out, lips thinned into a severe line. 

Her arms are crossed, body language saying “no nonsense.” The pale lavender of her blouse is blown-out by the faerie lights on your balcony’s guardrail. That low light almost makes her look intimidating. Oh, who are you kidding? Your Aunt Ara has always been intimidating.  

A nonplussed chuckle leaves you at her talk of food containers, however. “And? It’s not like I’m eating total garbage that will cut my lifespan in half, Aunt Ara.”

“I _know_ that diner, (y/n). Amicitia goes there every week. And you’ve never made it a huge secret about how you...” she waves her hand in the air, a grimace pulling down her lips, “ _feel_. Now, I’m not tellin’ you how to live or what to do, I just want you to be careful. And not for anyone’s sake other than yours.”

The world seems to fall right out from under you. 

She _knows_? How the hell could you have been so damn careless? But it’s not as if you _knew_ Gladio made it public knowledge that that crappy diner was his favorite place! Eyes are downcast before looking up and staring fixedly out at the city. From here, you can make out the Citadel. 

“Oh.”

Aranea runs her fingers through her hair with an aggravated sigh. “I’m _not_ lecturing you, kid, and I’m not going to rat you out so don’t look so damn grim. I just want you to take care of yourself. By the way… Biggs and Wedge have been askin’ about you. It wouldn’t kill you to call every now and then, you brat.”

And just like that the conversation is over- the _confrontation_ is over- with a little joke. 

It didn’t last long enough to make Uncle Iggy curious and he leaves with your aunt without further ado once you two go back inside and he’s certain you’ll eat the leftovers. Aranea doesn’t even look like she’s thinking about your situation with Gladiolus anymore since she said all that she needed to say.

Just be _safe_?

You try to put it out of your head. 

Not Aranea’s obvious love for you, of course, but the feeling that you had when you realized that someone was wise to what you and Gladiolus were up to. Guilt and fear followed by self-righteous anger. You’ve only ever felt that way before when you got caught doing something you knew you shouldn’t be doing.

Is that how you secretly feel?

Like pursuing Gladiolus Amicitia is something you shouldn’t be doing?

The secrecy is gone even if Aranea says she won’t tell anyone. It weighs heavily on your mind. When you meet Gladio for breakfast later in the week, you instinctively reach for the hand that rests on his knee as he drives, seeking comfort. 

The way Gladiolus tenses up when you reach over doesn’t go unnoticed. You ignore it like usual. Give his hand a light, friendly pat and play if off like it’s not a dagger in your gut. Ignore it in the hopes that if you keep pretending that you didn’t see it, it never even happened.

One step forward, about a million steps back to square one. 

Gladio’s obvious discomfort about getting close to his king’s daughter- his _friend’s_ daughter- has a way of ruining your appetite. Because it’s not just some simple hurdle that can be overcome or brushed away by a couple of months of breakfast.  

This issue runs deep.

It’s a convoluted web of duty, politics, and interpersonal relationships. 

Some boundaries shouldn’t be crossed- some lines should never be blurred. And though things are innocent between you right now, you’re realizing more and more that your dream is on a knife’s edge- liable to morph into a nightmare if you push those boundaries too far, too soon.

You have to play this smart.

But how exactly are you supposed to warm your father up to the idea of you dating an older man? The age gap alone would probably send your father into a fit- you can already hear the lecture about older men preying on younger women (though you’re _hardly_ some innocent lamb to be made prey of).

But the name of the older man in question? That might actually kill him. It would be the ultimate betrayal. Because your father had entrusted your training to the Shield. He trusted Gladiolus to look after you, not start trying to pursue you romantically. However… is Gladio even pursuing you romantically?

Before Aranea dropped that bomb on you, you were perfectly content with taking things at Gladio’s pace. You were fine playing the waiting game. But now that you’re beating yourself up over it? Thinking of how you’ll break the news to your father? It makes you realize that after all this time there’s no news to break.

It makes you wonder if there will ever _be_ any news to break.

It’s all of this doubt and overthinking that has you asking a question that causes Gladio to choke.

“I’m going to be frank with you,” you inform the Shield before taking a calming sip of coffee, untouched pancakes looking pristine compared to his half-finished burger. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together, Gladiolus, and it has me thinking. Do you want to officially date me?”

“O-Officially?” He asks after clearing the uncooked ramen from his lungs.

That’s not what you wanted to hear. You weren’t looking for him to parrot you like a fool in order to dodge your question. Eyes narrow but you smile anyway. “Yes. This has been fun, I’ll admit, but I’d much rather have things nice and official.”

“Listen, (y/n),” he looks dodgy and your teeth are on edge, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The age thing I can deal with and I think you’re a great woman.” Gladio sighs and shakes his head, looking tired and like he’s been beating himself up over this. “But your old man? I can’t do this to ‘im.”

With your best smile on, you point out stiffly, “Whatever it is that’s going on between us, Gladiolus, is going on _between us_. This isn’t a table for three.”

Amber eyes are morose. “Except it’s not that simple. You know that.”

Yeah. You know that. And you hate it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite how this chapter goes, the lovely anon requested a happy ending for the final chapter which is next. I hope you enjoy this! Lots and lots of angst.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Strong Language, Age Gap, MEGA Angst, Noct the Father, All the Tropes, Everyone Makes Mistakes, BIG Mistakes, Loose Lips Sink Ships, AU, End Game Spoilers???

**Part 4**

Honestly? You’re wishing you hadn’t pushed it. You’re wishing you hadn’t asked that question that you so desperately wanted the answer to.

Because you _hate_ the answer.

Even knowing that it was a very real possibility that you wouldn’t like Gladio’s response, you’d pushed it, though. And though you regret it ( _oh_ , how you regret it), you’re equal parts devastated and relieved. Because you didn’t know how much longer you could hold out; how much longer you could pretend to be okay with things moving at a glacial pace with no resolution in sight.

But it doesn’t mean you’re totally chipper right now.

The fun, flirty atmosphere is gone. Like the flimsiest of curtains during a terrible storm, it’s violently ripped away. It’s a struggle to be reasonable. The way the walls of the diner seem to close in on you, the way you feel like you’re sinking into the sticky seat, the way those amber eyes look at you with pity and remorse? It’s too much.

Years of practicing to modulate your emotions, to be that respectful and deferent Crown Princess, almost come undone. It’s laughable. Being broken up with before never _hurt_. It was only _annoying_ because all those past lovers expected you to have some outburst that you couldn’t work up the acting talent to produce.

And now you’ve just heard that you were never even dating. It wasn’t even a possibility, he claims. So, this isn’t a breakup. It’s literally nothing. It’s the acknowledgement of your feelings that you’ve been waiting _years_ to have… and it’s also the brushing away of those feelings as if they’re nothing, as if they _mean_ nothing.

So, this is what rejection feels like?

Well, you’d been rejected _before_...

But this is what rejection feels like in the face of hope? Rejection when you had everything on the table- everything to lose? And since this is your first time experiencing it, you force yourself to emulate Uncle Prom. Be positive. Don’t cry. Don’t show your hurt. And you decide to be someone whom Uncle Iggy would be proud to call his niece. You don’t swear or throw your coffee.

That in itself is a godsdamned miracle.

Instead of being weaponized, that coffee is gently stirred and you take a careful sip before replying, “Well, I’m glad that we came to an understanding _now_ rather than _later_. I thought we had an understanding prior to this one, but, of course, I was wrong.”

And, of course, Uncle Iggy wouldn’t mind you sniping at the brunet who sits across from you. You learned the art of the subtle drag from him, after all. But you can practically hear your Uncle Prom hissing at you to be cool and to come out of this sparkling. Then you think of _yourself_ and what would make _you_ feel better in this moment…

But that’s a pipe dream. What would make you feel better in this moment is for Gladiolus to tell you that despite everything, despite your status and who your father is, he wants to make this work. He wants to put forth the effort to make this tricky situation _work_. And just like that you feel stupid. Selfish and stupid.

Gladio sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. Like this, he almost looks his age. There are flecks of gray in his dark eyebrows which are furrowed together at the moment. This isn’t how he wanted any of this to work out. But you’re getting older, creeping up on thirty, and, as part of the royal council, he’s been privy to some sobering talks as of late.

Sobering talks about your increasing age and lack of a relationship.

Though Noct is loath to allow it, your marriage might have to be one of no small consequence. Although Noctis brought back the light, not everyone came scrambling over on their hands and knees to swear allegiance to Lucis. Some nations had interesting reactions. Namely, placing blame at the feet of the family line that bore Ardyn.

So, concessions with those nations must be made, even if Noctis’ initial reaction almost perfectly mirrored Gladio’s grumble of, “Fuck ‘em.” Contrary to a lot of people’s desires, it’s a very real possibility that you’ll be made a bargaining chip for the greater good of the kingdom. And Gladio is wary of mucking everything up by getting involved with you.

He hates himself a bit for it. Martyring himself like he’s in some romance novel (actually, the first novel to come to mind is penned by your best friend, who would _live for this_ right now), protecting both yours and his feelings by taking a step back just when you’re about to make things official. Never mind the fact that _neither of you_ has made the budding romance known to the king.

“Listen,” Gladio sighs, “I know you’re upset-”

It’s exactly the wrong thing to say to you right now. Because it triggers a diatribe that you were desperately attempting to smother to death. His commentary on knowing the intimate details of what you’re feeling right now? When he’s known what you’ve _felt_ for _years_? Especially because you’ve made it _very blatant_ for him these past couple of months?

“Upset?” It comes out high, tenuous. It has the waiter who had been dallying behind you, wiping down a table, hurrying off rather awkwardly for the kitchen. “Gladiolus, a lady is upset when she finds out upsetting news. This? What can possibly be upsetting about something that’s so very _typical_?”

“What?” He’s perplexed. Rightly so.

“Tell me: What exactly were your intentions when you agreed to see me for breakfast all this time? We’ve never spent time together before, so you can’t use the excuse that we were just _hanging out_. Believe me, I tried using that excuse many times.” When he doesn’t answer, you scoff, “Face it. We both knew what this was and we both know what you were doing.”

Amber eyes are downcast. “I’m sorry.”

“I would tell you what to do with your apologies for leading me on, but I would only disappoint myself.” You slide out of the booth and stand. Your purse is gathered up and money is coolly placed on the table. Head ducks in a casual nod, eyes hooded and expression one of mild disappointment. “Goodbye."

To be led on? You never thought yourself fool enough to be a victim of that kind of behavior. But you’d been blinded by love and fantasy. Not even infatuation. It would’ve been a mercy if this was _just_ infatuation. You’re home in a blur. Vaguely, you can recall Gladiolus calling after you as you marched through the diner’s parking lot and headed for the nearby bus stop.

Anger clouded your vision then and it impedes your memory now, because you don’t remember answering your father’s phone call on the bus ride home and agreeing to meet him for lunch. If you’d been thinking clearly, sandwiched between a slumbering college student and a man with his crying infant in his arms, you would’ve declined.

As it stands, you’re moping on your chaise, browsing the web on your phone, when there’s a knock on your door. Puzzled, since you never get unannounced visitors (even your friend knows you hate drop-ins with no prior warning), you quietly make your way to the door and peer through the peephole to see someone with a baseball cap on, the bill pulled down low, bits of dark hair peeking out.

A hint of a goatee and a familiar gray and yellow hoodie have you rolling your eyes and laughing, sour mood totally pushed away into the back of your mind where you hope in vain that it will stay. You wrench the door open and snort, “You’d better leave before I call the fashion police on you, dad. That getup is ten years in prison, easy.”

Blue eyes glare even as lips pull up into a smile. “I’m the king. Everything I put on _immediately_ turns into haute couture.” He comes inside when you step out of the way for him to enter. That baseball cap is pulled off to reveal messy raven hair with just a shimmer of gray. Then you notice the bag in his hand and are immediately aware of the aroma of food.

“What’s in the bag?” You ask the obvious question, leading your father to the dining table where he places the bag and begins pulling out containers. It’s a seemingly endless amount of food containers teeming with all of your mutual favorites. There’s a distinct aroma of curry (sans vegetables) and a motley array of desserts.

Noct shoots you a glare as he places everything on the table. “Well, when you stood me up, I decided to bring lunch to you.”

“Lu-?” You freeze, suddenly remembering his pouty voice over the phone, asking when you’d be seeing him next and you promising to see him at lunch in the Citadel. Obviously you forgot, forcing him to go incognito. A grin winds its way across your face despite your guilt at failing to be a dutiful daughter. “Whoops.”

“Uh-huh. _Whoops_ ,” he mimics, though he’s grinning, too. “Anyway, time to dig in, princess.”

Chatting with your father is always calming. He’s always been like your best friend with occasional bursts of parental authority. Piggyback rides in the throne room as a kid, carnival visits as a teen where he showed up dressed as one of the mascots, and diplomatic visits as an adult where you had to jab your elbow in his side to keep him from kneeling down and greeting another leader’s pets.

The two of you have always, _always_ been close. He had the worst case of empty nest syndrome when you moved out. So, it goes without saying that he can read you like an open book. You’ve never been the Ice Princess to him. Even when you’re quiet and withdrawn, he knows what you’re feeling. And as you laugh and flick a chocolate chip at him, he grabs your hand and goes serious.

His thumb rubs the back of your hand in small circles. Blue eyes flicker across the food-laden table a moment, stalling to come up with the best way to approach you, before your father softly says, “I haven’t seen you in a while, sweetheart, and you’re acting a little distant. Is something wrong?”

He’s your closest friend and confidant. Though you have your best friend and you _definitely_ tell her _everything_ , keeping secrets from your father hasn’t exactly been easy. The feeling of leading a double life has been taxing. At first it was thrilling. But now that the “fun” is over? Now that you’re looking your father in the face? You feel so exhausted.

“Dad, I need to tell you something,” you start lowly. You have it in your mind that you’ll tell him _most_ of the truth. Though you’re thoroughly pissed off with Gladio, you don’t think it would be right to throw him under the metaphorical bus. Especially since you don’t want him to get totally blindsided.

“Oh, no. Did you kill someone?”

You blink in surprise. “What? No!”

“I’m just checking!” Noct flaps his hands in an attempt to wave off his little faux pas. “‘Cause sometimes you have a _bit_ of a temper.”

Eyes roll despite the seriousness of the situation. “No, dad. I’ve been… seeing someone.”

What? You? Seeing someone? His little baby girl is in a _relationship_? He’s relieved. Oh, gods he’s relieved! Now he has a good enough excuse to brush aside a lineup of suitors that the council has been begging him to get you to see. He could only say, “No. That one definitely isn’t (y/n)’s type. After one date they’ll declare war on us,” so many times.

Reeling in his excitement, Noct asks, “Well, when can I meet the lucky…?”

“Guy. And never. Because it didn’t work out.” You’re back to poking your pudding with a spoon. The gelatinous substance wiggles on the plate.

“His loss.” Noct is brooding. How _dare_ someone hurt his baby’s feelings. Sure, his baby may be an adult but you’re still his baby. His curiosity starts to creep up, though. Because this was apparently a secretive sort of relationship since he never caught wind of it and you seem pretty torn up over it. You never abuse pudding unless you’re upset. “Can I ask why it didn’t work?”

“He was older.”

Those blue eyes slowly close and Noct gives the longest, most tortured sigh you’ve ever heard. He slumps in his chair across from you, fingers drumming on the table. “Do I want to know by how much? _Please_ don’t tell me he was married.”

“No and _hell_ no,” you scoff, jamming your spoon into the pudding once and for all. The utensil remains upright. That’s some rigid pudding.

Noct blows a raspberry by accident. It’s supposed to be a relieved huff of air. “Well, the _age thing_ aside… surely that couldn’t have been that big of a deal if something got started in the first place?”

“That’s the thing, though. Nothing got started,” you lamely admit, blushing under your father’s curious gaze.

He does a cartoonish double-take at your admission. His little princess is all torn up over a relationship that… wasn’t even a relationship? Something isn’t adding up here. Something doesn’t sound right. “But you said you were seeing him,” your father points out slowly, as if talking slower will help him puzzle out the meaning in your words.

Shoulders bob up and down in a tense shrug. “Yeah, I was. We were sort of testing things out to see if it could work. The relationship never got off the ground.”

“But you’re still hurt.”

“Yeah.”

Noct sighs and tilts his head to the side. Though he has limited knowledge on relationships and how to keep them from falling apart, he knows that they take work. And work can only properly get put into them if they get beyond the ‘testing the waters’ phase. “Well, maybe you two can still work out whatever problems you were having?”

Though you know your father is trying to be helpful, you’re slowly becoming irritated. All this vague talk about Gladio is getting on your nerves. “Highly doubtful. _I’m_ the one who pushed for the relationship to start and though I’m positive the attraction was mutual, there was just too much for him to lose. It was dumb of me to even try it. It was disrespectful of me to even try it...”

It’s frustration with yourself and the entire situation that makes you careless. It’s your comfort with your father that makes you careless. You aren’t guarded enough around him. You’re hurt and still reeling from breakfast. You’re a bit beyond the phase of being pissed at Gladio. Now you’re looking at your own role in this disaster.

Elbows are placed on the table, hands clasped under his chin. Those dark eyebrows are knitted together as your father peers closely at you. “Hold on. What did this guy stand to lose? How would being in a relationship with you make him lose anything at all? Not to sound arrogant, but he’d stand to gain _everything_ by dating you, honey.”

“That’s not true.” Eyes close and you sigh. Gods, you’re realizing how foolish it was for you to even push the relationship with Gladio. He’d been rightfully wary. Yet you’d only been thinking of yourself. Blinded by your own wants and needs, spurred on as he made his wants and needs known to you. Not looking at the bigger picture until the bitter end. “He’d lose practically everything.”

Noctis is on red alert now. That expression on your face? Guilt and remorse. And this mystery man would lose _everything_ if your _non_ -relationship was found out? But _why_? You’re in pain. He wants to take away your pain, of course, but he _needs_ to know the source of it. “(y/n),” no diminutives, he’s dead serious, “who were you seeing?”

Your eyes snap open to find your father with the most intense expression on his face. Heart stutters and leaps into your throat. The pudding is hypnotizing now. It’s all you allow yourself to look at. A pale yellow with dollops of whipped cream and slices of strawberry. “It doesn’t matter. I appreciate your concern but just drop it, dad. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“(y/n).” When you don’t look up, he warns, “If you don’t tell me yourself, I’ll have it found out. And I’d much prefer you telling me the truth so that this- _whatever_ this is- doesn’t get out to anymore people.”

It’s an empty threat. He wouldn’t invade your privacy like that. But, as your father, he’s still concerned. Because who in the world could his daughter possibly get involved with to make her feel like this? It screams of trouble. It waves red flags and flashes warning lights. It has “DANGER” painted on it in vibrant colors. And he can’t help if he’s in the dark.

“It’s…” You want to brush him off. But those imploring blue eyes? He’s seen you through all the low points in your life. You want to tell the truth and just put an end to all of this already. And you know you’ll quite possibly be ruining your relationship with your own father for it. “I was seeing Gladiolus, dad.”

Silence.

His face is an emotionless mask.

“Dad?”

Elbows slide off of the table. Hands are unclasped. The napkin on his lap is removed and he wipes his mouth, blue eyes fixed on his mostly untouched plate. There’s a delicacy to his movements. An effort not to shatter the fragile atmosphere. Then he stands and pushes his chair in. Food containers are put away in the bag but the bag remains on the table. And then he leaves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I probably get too real over a piece of fanfic, but whatevs. I know the anon who requested this was torn between wanting a happy end and a bad end, so we’ll go with ““more realistic”” and kinda lame end that leaves this story on a hopeful note. 
> 
> Honestly? I hate how this turned out. But I’ve never claimed to be a good writer, so y’all can’t say I duped you. Enjoy anyway? Also, because it has been requested a few times, I just wanted to make it known that I have no intentions of making a sequel for this. Thank you.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Violence, Age Gap, Angst Angst Angst, Intense Tense Flippage, Noct the Father, Suddenly a Character Arc, Bad Writing, All of the Tropes, Lame Ending, AU, OOC Galore

**Part 5**

There’s a small, bitter part of yourself that wants to sit back and let the chips fall where they may. It tells you to finish eating your pudding and perhaps brew a pot of coffee. It would be so much easier to let that part win out if you didn’t genuinely care about Gladiolus. And because you _do_ care, you’re on your phone the second the door closes behind your father.

Gladio answers after the second ring.

“(y/n).” He sounds relieved. That irritates you.

“I’m not calling to exchange pleasantries,” you find yourself snapping waspishly. “My father knows we’ve been _hanging out_ , Gladiolus. Don’t worry. He knows nothing happened.”

And then you hang up, the extent of your compassion having been met. Because although it’s your duty to make sure there’s as limited fallout as possible for your loose lips, that’s about all you owe the Shield. Practically the moment you set your phone down, you feel the urge to hibernate and wait for all of this to blow over.

You _are_ your father’s daughter.  

That urge is succumbed to and you wriggle your way into a blanket cocoon on your chaise. The blinds to your balcony are left slightly open so as to invite some sunshine in and make you a slightly less miserable sight. A few choice words swim around in your head and they’re all synonymous with “fool.” As usual, with her keen sixth sense for your moods, your best friend calls.

Perfect timing. You were about to start crying and now have to put those inconvenient emotions into a chokehold until they pass out.

“Hey, _(y/n)_!” She draws out your name in a sing-song voice, the way she does when she’s multitasking and trying to force everything around her to slow down so she can stay abreast of what’s going on. Most likely, she’s working on her book. “How’d breakfast go? You said you were gonna ask your gentleman caller to make things official _today_ , right? Or did I get the date wrong?”

Dammit. 

You forgot you’d spoken to her about this. She’d cheered you on and built you up, arguing that _one of you_ needed to make a move after months of inaction. Though you’re in a wretched mood, you don’t blame her. And why would you? It’s not as though Gladiolus would have changed his mind after skulking around with you for _even longer_.

A steady breath is inhaled soundlessly as you gaze upon your cozy living room with tired eyes. “Yup. You got the date right. We talked.” It’s dead silent on her end. She’s always been one of those “waiting with bated breath” types but you can still sense her excitement. Not once did it cross her mind that you would be rejected. A fake smile enters your voice. “It didn’t go well. It’s over.”

Any slight aberration in your tone is detected by keen ears that have trained for years for this day. For the friend of the Ice Princess knows that vulnerability is hidden well and when it _does_ rear up, it must be taken seriously and dealt with immediately. Pretty soon you have your own personal cheerleader on your doorstep with gross food and booze in hand.

“Have I mentioned that I love you?” You query, gazing at the face of your longtime friend. The blue light of the television illuminates her face in the darkness as she turns to you and raises her crappy but reasonably priced beer. She stays over for a couple of days, putting everything on hold to attend to your needs even though you insist it’s not necessary. Because it really, _really_ isn’t.

But every time that you’ve been there for her is remembered and dying to be repaid. It’s a rare occurrence for you to lower your defenses. A rarity that has your friend feeling both relieved that you’re emoting and uneasy to know that you would be going through this _alone_ if it weren’t for her. Because… there’s no update. No contact with Gladiolus _or_ your father.

There's no huge blowout. 

Or there _is_ and it's kept quiet. It wouldn't do to make it public knowledge that the king is feuding with his Shield, after all, and over the Crown Princess, no less. You don't know what's happened because it's been radio silent for _days_. In that time, you've stewed in those negative emotions of betrayal and insecurity.

But not once does your friend _let you_ let those feelings fester. She said it would be good for you to sit in those emotions and learn from them rather than run away and pretend they didn't and aren't happening. A "genuine learning experience," she'd called it. You'd snapped back, wondering what the hell it was you were supposedly learning.

"Rejection happens but it's not the end of the world?"

That unsure inflection that turned her sage advice into a question undermined the sentiment a bit, but now you can fully appreciate it. A few days of good, supportive company can provide a surprising amount of clarity. It's allowed you to better see Gladiolus' perspective and how you'd put him in an almost impossible position.

Not to say you _completely_ forgive him. It was still unfair of him to essentially lead you on. But you realize that despite how you said he always had the freedom to choose, that was never the case. Despite how you shrugged at your title, that didn’t and doesn’t strip away the power it gives you over others. You just wish your father had been part of this whole process with you.

It’s almost been a week since you last saw your father when there’s a sudden knock on your apartment door. A lot is discerned from that knock- forceful and abrupt, a quick rap of knuckles that tells you it’s your Aunt Ara well before you peer out of the peephole. Her knock didn’t warn you of Uncle Prom fidgeting beside her, though. What the hell?

The second you open the door, Aranea is pushing her way in like an insistent cat. Prompto follows on her heels with a meek smile, though he won’t meet your eyes. Oh, _perfect_. This is exactly the sort of reaction that you were hoping to avoid, hence your lack of initiative when it came down to contacting anyone at the Citadel.

Your aunt stops in the middle of your living room, taking in the overall cleanliness and _normality_ of the place, before giving a satisfied nod. But the pristine state of your home doesn’t assuage Prompto’s fears. Uncle Prom _knows_ you- he watched you grow up. He knows that you internalize everything. So, he’s the first one to speak ‘cause he doesn’t trust Ara to tread lightly.

“Hey, (y/n)… How’ve you been?” He talks in what you’ve always called his “high school counselor voice.” It’s soft with an easy cadence, head ducked down just a little bit and big blue eyes turned up to you. Like this, his crow’s feet are more visible. You aren’t nearly cruel enough to tease him about it even though your father does it almost constantly.

“Better than you, I’m guessing,” you murmur, eyeing his unkempt facial hair. Gods, he almost has a _beard_. Too bad for him that his facial hair grows out so unevenly. An offer of tea is given and politely refused. Seats are tentatively taken in the living room with you occupying your chaise as usual and the others taking the couch.

A tense silence settles in the air. Aranea mostly keeps quiet because Prompto wouldn’t shut up about “taking it easy” and “being careful” the whole drive in. He’d gone on and on about how tough heartbreak is as if she’d never experienced it but she just couldn’t bring herself to scold him for being so protective of his unofficially adopted daughter.

Because honestly? She’s been worried, too. Noctis has been sulking which has had Ignis sulking and… gods it’s just a mess. And the fact that you haven’t been assed to call at least _once_? Aranea came here expecting the worst. Now? She’s just irritated. But that annoying blond angel sitting on her shoulder stills her sharp tongue.

Aranea drums her fingers on her knee. The gesture is watched by everyone. Head nods, bottom lip is bitten, and then she just blurts, “So, your father punched Amicitia.”

“ _What_?”

“Aranea!”

Dammit! Prompto _knew_ he should’ve dragged Iggy along to make sure Ara stayed on her best behavior! But he’s been busy hovering around Noct since you told him you’d been seeing Gladio in a romantic-but-not-romantic capacity. Prom still isn’t even sure what did or didn’t happen between you and Gladio. All he knows is that Noct pulled Gladio aside before a meeting and decked him.

Noctis had refused to tell Specs what was wrong when he returned home from visiting you. His voice was tense, strained, and he felt ill. Strange urges filled him: To trash his room, to break things and yell. But then he told himself he’d have to clean up the mess and he’d just feel dumb afterward. Noct promised himself he’d sleep on it. And he did.

Dreams were filled with memories of you as a child. Chubby cheeks and imploring eyes. Piggyback rides and trips to petting zoos where you shrieked and laughed when odd animals would bump your little hand with their heads for affection. He tossed and turned, threw his sheets off. And he didn’t feel any better in the morning.

The timing was _awful_. There was a council meeting the next day. Ignis was still doing his subtle probing, trying to pry Noct’s problems out of him in his usual fashion. It all built up so fast. Frustration doubled, tripled, multiplied exponentially at the sight of Gladiolus Amicitia, at the sight of the shame Noctis could see in those amber eyes… or the shame he projected there.

It was so bizarre how it even happened; no one suspected a thing. The king had gazed about the room, looking tired but otherwise his normal self before calling on his Shield to have a private word out in the hall. Gladiolus looked tense but did as he was told. The door closed behind them and a minute later they were back and Gladio’s lip was bleeding.

“Let’s commence the meeting,” Noct had announced, hiding his bruising knuckles under the table. Gladiolus hadn’t said a word. He’d been expecting it since you called him to warn him. And he hadn’t slept well, either. Much like Noctis, he tossed and turned. Visions of you plagued his dreams: The woman he’d fallen for and the princess he’d disrespected.

Fingers pinch the bridge of your nose. A tension headache is coming on. “ _Why_ would my dad do that?”

You’re shocked. Your father has always been prone to bad moods but usually they’re of the sulky, quiet variety. However, you’ve _heard_ that he has the capacity for outbursts. Though you’ve never seen your father go into any sort of rage yourself, you’ve heard stories of that quiet anger exploding into something more.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, princess?” Aranea suggests not unkindly but there’s an edge to her tone.

Those sharp eyes pierce through you. The infectious moods of (y/n), she always called it because it’s _always_ been like this. When you’re upset, Noctis and Ignis are the first to fall followed by Prompto and herself. Sometimes she wants to laugh at how predictable you all are. And now Gladiolus has joined these cursed ranks.

No persuading is necessary. Later, you’ll feel a bit chagrined for leaving your aunt and uncle in your apartment rather than seeing them out. Any dramatic mood on your way to see your father is thwarted by public transport. It takes you half an hour to get to the Citadel and you get a text from Uncle Prom about where to find your father because he and Ara already got back.

“He’s asleep. He’s been doing that a lot more lately,” the text had read. Way to lay the guilt on thick, Prom.

The dramatic mood that was killed by a lethargic bus driver is revived by the sight of your father in a blanket cocoon in the middle of his bed. The lights are dimmed and therapeutic oils simmer on a burner atop a dresser, most likely Uncle Iggy’s doing. Bed dips under you as you sit and the cocoon slowly stirs to life. A finger prodding into his back does the trick.

“Specs, I-” Noct cuts himself off in the middle of a totally un-kingly whine as he flops over onto his side to see you. Immediately, his bottom lip pouts out and he hides it by pulling his blanket up a bit higher. Blue eyes peer at you through the dim light. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey, dad.” Oh, gods. You’re putting on Uncle Prom’s counselor voice. “We need to talk.”

His least favorite words from you. First they were said because you were going away to college and then when you got back you said those words again because you wanted to move out of the Citadel. Are you _trying_ to put him in his grave? Noctis slowly sits up, still being swallowed whole by blankets, and nods.

“Yeah. We need to talk.”

Despite father and daughter affirming that a talk does, in fact, need to take place, the two of you sit in silence for a bit longer. The smell of mint or whatever other earthy sort of plant oil that mingles in the air starts to burn your nose. It doesn’t account for how bloodshot your father’s blue eyes look, though. His facial hair is almost as awful as Uncle Prom’s.

This has you pawing away the blankets from him so you can grab his hand. Noct still pouts a bit. You smile faintly, unsurely. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, dad.”

A pained look flashes across Noct’s face. Have you been avoiding him all this time because you thought he was upset with you? Because-! Okay, yeah. He was initially pretty pissed but not in the way you probably imagined. Noctis has always admired the woman you’ve grown into. You _rarely_ disappoint him. But when you do...

“(y/n), you’re an adult but I’m your _father_. My job is to protect you,” Noct sighs at himself, at how he starts sounding like the stereotype he hates, “and to make sure _you’re_ happy. When I left, I wasn’t mad _at you_. I was shocked. You and Gladiolus _lied to me_. It might not have been a blatant lie to my face but it was a lie of omission. These past few council meetings he’s just _sat there_ as we-”

Your father cuts himself off. Where his cheeks were starting to grow pink and his hand was warming up in yours, blue eyes blazing and determined to properly express himself to you, now he shrinks into himself in that quiet way of his. He’s hiding something. The king having a lot on his plate has never been news. But you’re unaware of just what’s been eating away at him.

Slow circles are rubbed into the back of his hand with your thumb. “As you what?”

Dark lashes flutter as he stares at the bed. “The council has been trying to force an arranged marriage these past couple of weeks. They say it’s not a compulsory thing and it’s _just_ arranged but... It’s dating with strings attached, which I argued is more strong-armed than an arranged marr-”

Now you do the cutting off. This is something you’ve always suspected would happen considering the tenuous relationship Lucis has with other nations. But to hear that it’s _actually_ happening? Gods, were you wrong when you imagined how you’d feel if this hypothetical scenario ever became a reality. You don’t even feel angry. Just… betrayed?

This must have been what your father felt. In fact, it is. To have your best friend (ignore the fact that father and daughter consider each other best friends) keep such a huge secret from you? When you usually tell each other everything? It’s a breach of trust. It’s uncomfortable and strange- foreign in an unsettling way. Disappointed. You’re disappointed.

Who knew disappointment in a loved one would hurt so much?

Still, you brush aside empathy for indignation. You drop your father’s hand to cross your arms and scoff, “You’ve been talking about arranging a marriage for me in council meetings? And you never told me?”

“We both lied to each other by omission.” Noct looks disappointed in himself. Perhaps more than you are. “I know it doesn’t count for much, but I’ve shot it down every time it’s been brought up. I can’t stand the idea of using you as some sort of bargaining chip with a bunch of ass- uh, jerks who can’t decide if they wanna be our ally or not.”

That quirk of not swearing in front of you never ceases to make you snort, something that almost undermines the seriousness of this talk. Even now, when you’re an adult and swearing on your own _even in front of him_ , Noct tries (and usually fails) not to curse. It all started when you heard him say “shit” as a kid and you made Ignis go politely apoplectic by repeating it to him.

A sigh leaves you. There’s a lot of that going around. You grab your father’s hand once more and he holds yours on the off-chance that you let go again first. “I’d say they cancel each other out but that’s probably not a healthy way of dealing with deception,” you lamely joke. Shoulders shrug, trying to come across apathetic though this is a serious matter.

“Yeah. Probably not,” Noct murmurs. “We’ve never lied to each other before. It’s weird.”

With an evil grin, you drawl, “That’s not true. You lied to me when I was a kid when you told me that you caught the Liege of the Lake.”

Blue eyes glare and a dorky smile struggles not to peek through. “Well, _you_ lied to me when you said you didn’t get an employee discount at the ice cream shop you used to work at in high school, so who’s the bigger liar here, (y/n)?”

“ _Wow_ ,” you laugh, thankful for the easy levity that always comes when you’re talking with your father. “You really haven’t let that one go, huh? Dad, you were starting to eat a _concerning_ amount of ice cream...” His grip on your hand tightens. The smile leaves your face. “Are you still upset with me?”

“About the ice cream? Until the day I die. But about Gladio?” He’s had a lot of time to think about this. Noct supposes you giving him space was actually helpful, though it hurt in the moment. “I’ll be honest, it’s weird. He’s so _ol_ -” at your pointed look, he coughs and continues, “My only consolation is that I know he’s a good guy. Besides, you’ve never needed my _permission_. I like to think I’ve never been a controlling father.”

“A good guy, huh?” Eyes are hooded as you fix your father with a stern look. Oh, no. He knows that look. It’s the same one you gave him when he showed up at your college campus dressed as a “youth.” Lips purse and you scold, “Aunt Ara told me that you punched him. Though I know you and Gladiolus have a history of punching it out, that wasn’t… you really shouldn’t have, dad.”

“Yeah, I know. I already apologized like a million times.” Noctis, King of Lucis, pouts for the umpteenth time like a child. “By the way… How did _Aranea_ know before me?”

“I didn’t tell her, if that’s what you’re wondering. She found out on her own.”

He blinks. “Huh? How?”

“My fridge was full of takeout containers,” you admit, feeling your cheeks warming up under that amused gaze.

“Oh, man. Don’t tell me it was from that crappy diner? The one in the bad neighborhood?”

“The very one.”

Noct sighs and rolls his eyes. “He only goes there for that stupid hipster burger, y’know. The ramen one? He tried getting Specs to make it but he wasn’t having it. It tastes like burned styrofoam and unfulfilled dreams.”

The two of you laugh. Well, you chuckle a bit and then roll your eyes at your father’s dorky laughter at his friend’s expense. It seems a bit of laughter was what Noct was needing (that and his beloved daughter’s company) because he laughs far too much over something that isn’t even all that funny. When he’s done, you steel your nerves in preparation for an important question.

“Are we good?” You ask.

Noct smiles and huffs another laugh through his nose. He brings your hand up to his lips and places a kiss against your knuckles. “We’ll always be good, honey.”

It takes a bit longer for you to reach out to Gladiolus. You don’t take that heart-to-heart with your father and immediately go running to the Shield for yet another emotionally draining talk. You keep your distance, lick your wounds, and continue to sort out the complexities of your feelings alongside the very real complications that your title brings to the table.

Though it feels very juvenile, you approach him via text after you’ve bumped into him at the Citadel a couple of times and no longer feel the urge to double-back and take a longer route to your father’s office just to avoid the Shield. His response is immediate and the two of you agree to meet at that damn diner again even though the idea of being back there sets your teeth on edge.

In truth, Gladiolus hasn’t stopped thinking about you. In his mind he goes over everything he could have done differently. He should’ve insisted on being upfront with Noctis, adequately addressed the elephant in the room that is your status as Crown Princess and the potential of an arranged marriage. But most importantly, he thinks about how he could’ve avoided hurting you.

There were so many things that he said in passing that were unintentionally cruel. Offhand comments about your age, jokes that suggested you should date someone even though he knew you were under the impression that everything was leading up to _the_ _two of you_ dating. Every protection he afforded himself and his ego shouldn’t have been at your expense.

And he feels a bit strange confessing this all to you over coffee in a diner that reeks of cigarette smoke and oil that’s been reused perhaps too many times. It feels like it’s been forever since he’s been here and now he’s seeing it differently. It feels like it’s been forever since he’s spoken to you and now you seem so different.

You listen patiently, heartbeat going down the longer this goes on. Funny. On the drive here you’d felt like you might puke. Your phone was blowing up with motivational texts from your friend along with memes that didn’t really suit the mood. But as Gladiolus speaks, you’re put at ease. Anger melts away alongside residual guilt.

It’s a comfort to know that he’s genuinely attracted to you and developed real feelings for you. It assuages some of your fears about him feeling compelled to reciprocate your feelings because of who your father is. But it also frustrates you. Because why the hell couldn’t he have just _said so_ in the first place? Did it really take getting punched by your father for Gladio to tell you this?

But it wasn’t just a punch. In that brief minute of confrontation and in the apology that followed, Noctis aired out his grievances. It was a cliché of “I thought you were my friend!” that quickly took a different route. It was frustration with the Shield for toying with your feelings. That was what warranted a punch in the mouth.

And as Gladio wiped the blood from his bottom lip he confessed that he hadn’t meant to toy with your feelings and that he actually returned them. That warranted another punch for not saying so in the first place. “For being so damn old, you sure do like acting like you’re still in high school,” Noct had fumed, cradling his fist and damning himself for going for such a hard target.

That got Gladiolus thinking. 

All this time he’d been telling himself that he was protecting you and his kingdom by not committing to a relationship with you. But in reality he was making everything that much more complicated. Because he lingered, unable to make a clean break and let you move on because deep down he couldn’t stand the idea of you being with anyone else.

“Well, thank you for telling me this,” you say politely, ripping Gladio from his thoughts and inspecting the packets of sugar on the table before settling on keeping your coffee black, bitter, and sugarless. There are sugar ants marching to and from the condiment tray. Not on your _life_.

“Can we start over?” Gladiolus suddenly asks. 

His hopeful question gives you pause. Gladio believes it’s too presumptuous, of course, especially after all that’s happened. But he knows he’ll regret it if he leaves here today and continues on with his life without at least trying to keep you in it as more than just his princess. Black coffee is stared at as if it holds the answers to all of your questions. 

If only...

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you no longer have feelings for Gladiolus Amicitia. But to start over? The two of you had grown so close these past few months and you don’t want to just scrap it all and throw it in the bin. Yes, you understand that the two of you started this whole relationship off wrong, but that doesn’t invalidate the progress you two made getting to know each other.

“After all of that emotional labor and me having to sit through you eating way too many damn ramen burgers? Hell no, Gladiolus.” Gaze flickers up and you add, “By the way, you need to cut back on those things. I know you work out obsessively but arteries don’t lift weights.”

A smile hides hurt and disappointment. “Hey. Not once did I ever insult your _pancakes_ , princess.” There’s an awkward pause as he waits for you to say something else. When the silence drags on longer than he’s comfortable with, the Shield murmurs, "I know I stepped outta line, Your Highness."

"Don't call me that unless we’re in the Citadel or around other foreign monarchs," you groan, sipping your bitter coffee and rolling your eyes. "I meant what I said, Gladiolus. I don’t want to _start over_. But…” nerves are steeled with another too-casual sip of coffee, “what do you say about trying again? On equal ground this time."

The proposition hangs in the air. 

There’s a clang of metal on metal as the cook prepares burgers for another couple that sits on the opposite side of the diner from you two. A heavy musk of cooking meat fills the air. After a moment, a hand reaches across the table to hold yours. It’s the first time he’s initiated any sort of physical contact. Stunned, you look up to meet his warm amber gaze. Gladiolus smiles.

“Yeah. Sounds good, (y/n).”


End file.
